Lowell

“Jesus, you guys. Who decided to let her do that? ” Larry isn’t concentrating on driving, and Lowell’s gripping his seat. They’re cruising Broadway. “Is she bleeding? Nose, eyes, ears? Well check.” Pause. “Okay, is she breathing? I know she can’t. Check her breathing.”

His loose shirt is puffed up by the air vents, and he’s got a sunburn on his upper arms; his skin looks older than it should. The blue light from the dash shadows out his eyes. Sweat on his upper lip: he needs a shave.